The mission had gone off without a hitch. Intel secured, no casualties, and Simon was proud—well, as proud as a man like Ghost allowed himself to be. He gave a small nod of approval as you stood by the truck.

“Go celebrate,” he said gruffly. “You’ve earned it, Rookie.”

You’d mentioned the guy you’d met a week ago at that dive bar downtown. Easy smile, he had kind eyes and charming. He'd texted you last night, asking about a second date.

Simon smirked faintly. “Go. Just be back at base tomorrow by 6pm.

You saluted playfully. “Yes, sir.”

That was the last time he saw you smiling.

---

03:17 AM

Your limbs were heavy and your throat was dry. Something sharp ached on your left rib. You blinked slowly, the overhead light blinding. Your wrists were strapped. You smelled iodine. Your skin burned. When you looked down.

Fresh ink.

A tattoo, it was still unfinished and still bleeding: “Property of M.”

Panic thundered in your chest.

A shadow moved across your vision—him. The charming guy from the bar. He was wearing black gloves, humming softly. He whispered. “Makarov says hello.”

And then... darkness. A cold tank. Metal walls. Air tight. Screws turning. Lid sealing. Your ring—your Task Force issue one—slipped off as you thrashed, clinking to the floor.

Buried.